Soldiers of Misfortune
by Agent-007.1
Summary: As the war to reclaim the Frontier rages on, the IMC and the Militia continue to fight in a war neither side was truly prepared for. This is the recounting of the IMC 4th Fleet, 441st Armored Footmobile Brigade, and the struggles of the Pilots and Grunts alike to survive in a war none of them signed up to fight in.
1. A Sunny Day

Most people go their whole lives without ever going into space. A blessing and a curse, depending on who you ask. There is something to be said about seeing the enormous grass-green marble, smacked down against the asphalt black of space. Moons were scattered around the fluorite fueled green giant, like a dozen little vultures slowly circling an impromptu graze site. The blinding light of the local star was thankfully not in the picture, but the light it provided was very warm and inviting to weary travelers so used to empty blackness of the vacuum.

What the star made up for in light, it failed to break the cold.

Cold. That was a word for it. It was the one thing all spacers failed to get used to. It was a deep chill that sunk into your bones. A shark with icicles for teeth, slowly burning it's way down into your heart, no mater how much you tried to insulate yourself from it.

But hey, how about those views?

Neither one of these things was on the minds of any of the men and women gathered in recreation room 6, of the IMS _Hesperides_ , a _Draconis_ -Class Cargo Ship. The lack of windows provided a hindrance to sightseeing, and the focus on the briefing put the cold out of everyone's minds. Twenty-seven soldiers, all in casual wear, were packed into a room originally intended to hold twenty. All eyes were focused towards the short, Slavic man up front.

Chief Petty Officer Ambrozije Kapić was one of five COs of the 441st Armored Footmobile Brigade. His was the responsibility of the 4th Battalion, which was composed of 319 souls. In front of him was his twenty-seven highest ranking NCOs, and behind him was marked map with a small list of notes to one side, containing important information pertaining to their upcoming objectives.

"Private," came the voice of the CPO, "kill the lights, if you'd be so kind." The lights in rom dimed to the point that only the front was clearly visible, illuminated by the projector. "Alright everyone, here's the deal. Oinari IX is our destination, Sanbashi to specific."

A picture of a city comprised of a large spaceport complex at it's center was on display. a large 'h' shaped building with several large pads around the outside of the arch, with a few smaller ones on the inside as well. Apartment blocks, maintenance facilities, a few transit systems, and residential marketplaces slowly rippled out away from the main complex which dwarfed every other aspect of the city of 845,000 people.

"The _Peri_ will be dropping us off here," the map expanded to show a large courtyard outside a transit station plaza "and Alpha, Bravo, and Delta will secure any positions along these causeways." Several major roads around the station were highlighted and given corresponding unit designations. "Charlie will be held in reserve. Now, since the 3rd Spectre Legion is joining us today-" the room filled with boos and hisses "-we'll be flying in on our Bears." The room was filled with mild cheers of approval with this, until a hand came up in the crowd. "Maistre?"

The mountainous Norman man towered over all his comrades, even while sitting, stood up with a respectful nod. "What's the wait degree, Chief?"

The only question that ever truly mattered at these briefings. IMC policy coming with a vengeance to bite every last one of them in the ass. International laws prohibited the IMC from just showing up and evicting populations without notice. The amount of notice given was calculated out and determined the time the IMC gave a world to prepare for evacuation. This period of inaction where IMC forces were on maximum deployment, but also on total stand by mode, was referred to as the 'wait degree'.

These 'wait degrees' were insufferable to the troops. At first, it hadn't been a problem. But with the advent of the Frontier Militia, things had become complicated. Many of the residents usually had no intention of moving, semantics for debating at another time, so they would send out a request for help to the Militia. A colony would be given it's advance warning and, instead of using that time in order to prepare for a peaceful evacuation, they call in the help of the Militia. IMC forces would be forced to watch and wait as their opposition set up countless defenses in the time given to them. Regardless of what the Militia did in order to set up defenses, the IMC was forbidden from setting foot on the world for a minimum of 36 hours. One highly populated colony once was given a week to prepare.

And so, the question of the wait degree was always asked. "I'll answer that in a minute, Maistre, okay?"

The brute sat back down. "All good, Chief."

"Alright," Kapić continued to the next part of the briefing as the display changed, "now since our objective is to secure the Transit station and oversee the evacuation of sector Foxtrot-4, we will not be engaging in any offensive actions. Let me repeat; strictly defense." His emphasis could not be clearer. "The _Guadiana's_ 2nd Air Assault Wing has two Goblin Gunships on standby for CAS if needed, but with authorization from ATCOM. Once your perimeters are established, Heinkel Squadron will be deployed on advanced recon. Standard ROEs are in effect, so that means..."

The small contingent of Titan Pilots clustered near the front row all droned together, "No shooting unless you're bleeding."

"Täpselt." The room had a short bout of laughter. It was small things like this that dissolved some of the tension before a deployment. A well timed joke can dissolve much of the tension, and keep everyone's minds on mission and off mortality.

A large gloved hand shot into the air. "Chief," grunted a Germanic man in the Pilots section, "what're the regulations regarding Titan falls?"

Warrant Officer Alois Haberditz was a resent addition to the crew. he was a relatively young, but by no standards green, and a very good shot. At twenty-six years old, he was on the younger side of most Pilots, but a twenty-two or twenty-three year old Pilot wasn't unheard of. He passed CTOS as a heavy ordinance specialist, and had been on several marginally dangerous operations, where he quickly developed a niche in sharpshooting with his assault rifle. A few weeks ago, his Brigade was surrounded and cut off for three days and suffered 'logistical annihilation'. The remains of his unit were transferred to other low strength forces about to be deployed to 'hazard pay sites', what military personnel would refer to as the front lines.

"It's dense population, so NRMs only. And no Ogres, either." Several members of Heinkel Squadron grunted in dissatisfaction.

Six of the sixteen Pilots operated Ogres as their primary Titan. Luckily, or not depending on how one looked at it, every IMC Pilot has a 'primary Titan' and a 'reserve Titan', which is used when the primary is restricted or damaged. The main problem with the reserve Titans, which is a major grievance with Ogre Pilots in particular, was that all reserves were standard issue Stryder-class. Even if it was equipped with a 40mm auto-cannon, MTMS, and Particle Wall, it was still an deviated setup on a rig the Pilots weren't used to.

The rest of the unit was still irritated, at least anyone who didn't use a basic projectile weapons, but were pleased that they wouldn't have to trade out for an unfamiliar Titan.

"Now, once the civilian population has been evacuated, you will exfil via the Transit system, so try to make sure it doesn't take to much damage. Remember everyone, our job on this op is _over watch_ , not hard contact. Militia presence is expected to be very heavy, so once the timer is up, bug the fuck out of there."

The room remained mostly silent, with a mix of nods or mumbles of confirmation and understanding. Until someone in the back yelled out. "So what's the degree!?"

Without missing a beat, Kapić stated flatly, "Seventy-two hours."

Grumbles of mixed feelings flooded the room. Small discussions broke out between people as they tried to determine if this was bad or not. On one hand, there was the fact that seventy-two hours was not enough time to set up major static fortifications. With only seventy-two hours, that gives the Militia enough time to either fortify a few key areas with reinforced positions and sluggish response forces, or a dispersed, flexible response force without the ability to attack large IMC force. But all this depended on the size of the Militia Force.

"Chief," a man said, "who's the OpForce?"

Chief smiled, and a charge went through the room. Hardened veteran grunts grind in delightful anticipation.

"You want to know, uh?"

"Is it the M-COR Boss?" And other similar questions, albeit more resembling statements than questions at this point, occupied the air. All silenced with a raise of the hand.

Kapić lowered his hand and clicked the next image onto the screen. The image of a skeleton pirate pointing a pistol drawn in old dueling style, holding a flag with a stylized _'11th'_.

"Latest intel confirms with very high probability, that we will-" he had meant to finish with ' _be fighting the 11th Advance Raiders'_ , but the spontaneous uproar of all nearly everyone drowned him out. Even the newer additions to the 4th Battalion were fist pumping and expressing some moderate form of excitement. Similar expressions were probably taking place aboard other transport ships of the 441st Armored Footmobile Brigade.

The Marauder Corps, or 'M-COR', was the quintessence of the Frontier Militia. They were the famous of the Militia forces, and had quite a lot of popularity. That also meant that a lot of IMC units were itching to square up with them, especially for the 4th Fleet, the parent unit of the 441st. The 11th Advance Raiders in particular, shared a vendetta with the 441st, in that they had contested the same field of battle almost a dozen times. The last time had ended with the Raiders 'running back with their with their hides liked' as many of the troops put it. This had chalked up the third in a series of wins against the 11th Raiders, and the 441st was hoping to keep the streak going.

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Alright, so as I was going through all the data files on the Titanfall operations, I noticed a lack of stories that, in my opinion, showed an accurate perspective view of the IMC. Even if it did, then the characters usually just up and switched sides because the IMC 'suddenly' crossed a moral line and the character didn't like it.**

 **So, what I kind of hope to accomplish here is to show the war, or at least a fraction of it, from entirely the IMC perspective. I'll also be working in a little of my own head canon, so buckle up and brace for impact, 'cause it's going to get crazy... depending on your perspective at least.**

 **EDIT: 3/24/2018**

 **So acronyms for all the people who have no idea what is being said, since the IMC is not a military and has made up a few of their own terms instead of using contemporary military terminology.**

 **ATCOM- Air Traffic Command**

 **CTOS- Combat Titan Operation School**

 **NRMs- Non-Reactive Munitions (thermite, lasers, plasma)**

 **MTMS-** **Multi-Target Missile System**

 **Anything else confuse you, just ask.**

 **END TRANSMITION**


	2. The Vacation Begins

Emma Walker was about as green as a grunt could be. She had wanted to work for the IMC all through secondary school. She had always wanted to join the military, and a recruiter had told her that taking a small time security job for a company, like the IMC, was a good way to get introduced to military command hierarchies and logistical coordinating. So, right out of secondary, she took a seasonal job for some cash, and applied for a job at the crisp age of nineteen. Eight months of 'basic' later, and here she was, a part of the 144st Armored Footmobile Brigade, 4th Battalion, Bravo Company. Unfortunately, no one had deemed it relevant to notify her of the fact thst the IMC had recently engaged in the largest unofficial war this side of the Crab Nebula.

She had been assigned to the unit, and the IMS _Hesperides_ to go along with it, as her first deployment. Her active career had only been four months and eight days to date, and she had already been to seven planets. While she had been racking up frequent spacer miles, she had yet to see any heavy combat. Most of her engagements had been observations of evacuations or simply moving from one planet to another. The IMC Security Division was, compared to other areas of the Corporation, severally understaffed, so most security units had to play the part of site security one day, and be spearheading a reclamation operation a few days later. This sometimes would lead to a unit not being properly resupplied before flying off to a besieged planet that needed reinforcements, which in turn leads to abnormally high casualties. The 144st was only one of seven Brigades operating at full strength. That's seven of the thirty eight brigades in the 4th Fleet at full capacity.

This was actually, as it would happen, the reason PFC Emma Walker was here. She was a replacement.

"Keiko! Where'd you go shōjo," said an armored man from the other side of the armory. The man was none other than Cpl. Takeichi Nishi.

"In here Boss!"

Cpl. Nishi, more commonly referred to as 'Boss', was an anti-armor specialist for her platoon, and she was his assistant. He was a well built man of average height, but was a good head and a half taller than her. His darker hued skin reviled his East Asian lineage, but he actually hailed from some asteroid in the Tau Ceti System. A blatant contrast to her own British ancestry. He was also beginning to show signs of ageing, with his fifty-three years of life overshadowing her meager twenty years, and half of his which were given to military service.

"Just trying to find reloads for the One-Two." The Brockhaurd Manufacturing Model-12 MPATGM was the precursor to the Archer missile launcher. It had more range and was lighter, but lacked as much of a punch and was manually guided. After the introduction of the Archer, many IMC anti-armor teams serving in units unfavorably sacked by the Logistics Department found that the old M-12 was easier to carry additional ammo for, and did just as much damage to Titans provided that you hit them.

"The Q Man hide it again?" The Quartermaster was infamous for rearranging the armories every time he restocked.

"This place is more cluttered than my younger brothers' room." She put her hands up in exasperation. "It's fucking ludicrous!"

Ammo cans were stacked on shelves, guns packed into boxes in the middle of the room, and rows upon rows of other weaponry paraphernalia stuffed into every available niche. A Marine Drill Sergeant would probably have an aneurysm.

"Well hurry up," he replied in a mildly dulcet but authoritve tone. "We're wheels up in six hours, and you still need to get geared up."

' _Damn it_ ' she thought. She still needed to get her gear together, check her rifle, stock up on everything else and, if time permitted, take a shower and nap. She was going into seventeen hours of non stop awake and she was beginning to feel the missing sleep crawling into the back of her eyes. _'Coffee isn't going to cut it anymore.'_

* * *

 **5 hours later**

Walker was sitting on her bunk trying to put her Hemlok back together. She had found her spare HEAT missiles, ready to take out any light armor the Militia could throw at her. She wore her standard IMC gray digital armor, capable of protecting her from most low velocity projectiles. Her CQCT helmet sat next to her, waiting to provide her with enhanced optics.

Her rifle though, was useless. It sat in her hands, separated into its disassembled parts. It couldn't do anything unless she put it back together. A simple task if it wasn't for her shaking hands.

Why were hands shaking? _'Why, why, why? Please don't lose it today.'_

If what she got from the briefing from her platoon's Chief Petty Officer was accurate to the impending situation, this was going to be her first _real_ experience in a hard contact operation. Essentially, this was going to be her baptism by fire.

Walker tucked her hands under her arms, closed her eyes, and took in a breath. "Cover, shoot, scoot, cover, shoot, scoot..." On she went, repeating the mantra that had been drilled into her since day one.

 _"Take cover! Return fire until they stop shooting, then you move!"_ Her instructors had said that the moment she touched a gun. All squad tactics revolved around suppression fire and maneuver. As long as she remembered at least this one thing, she wouldn't freeze. _"_ _You forget, you freeze; you freeze, you die. Guaranteed."_

"Walker, where the fuck are you!"

Petty Officer Second Class Arnaud Dubois was a fifty-three year old Flemish man who had seen, according to some, far to much warfare in his life. He served over two decades in the European Union's Agence de Défense et de Sécurité des Colonies Extraterrestres, otherwise known as the EU Colonial Army. After which, he spent several years helping the Pirov Cossacks in their Civil War as a mercenary. He was now working on his eighth year as an IMC Marine, and her current platoon leader. Needless to say, he was probably one of the most seasoned soldiers in the whole Regiment.

"Right here Dubbs!"

His head snapped to his left, hitting her with an expressionless gaze. She would be lying if she said that his eyes didn't unnerve her. He always seemed to have this ability to look at someone and be able to read there emotions with just a glance. Like he could feel her jitters. That, or he could read the dismantled rifle parts in her lap. Either way, if he could read her current mildly anxious state of mind, as he turned on his heel and walked right back out of the bunk room with nothing more than "Assembly in starboard hangar in ten."

"Wilco, Dubbs." She looked down at her rifle once again, and sighed out some of her nerves. "Okay..."

* * *

 **Starboard Deployment Hangar**

 **IMS _Hesperides_**

"Alright Benji," started Kapić "how will you _talumatu_ pilots be fairing us into the hellfire today?"

While Kapić was technically the battalions CO, he was also much more suited for coordinating infantry company tactics than orchestrating the deployment of said infantry companies. He did not pretend to be an expert in aerial deployment into 'inaccessible' LZs. He left that herculean task to the crazy pilots of the Bears, the _Peri's_ domestic Goblin squadron, and their Captain Owen Benjamin. Who was currently drinking a mug of, presumably, coffee.

"Alright," sip "so, Delta and Heinkel are first. This courtyard is our primary LZ, but since this is a blind insert, we'll be using the roofs of these buildings-" pointing to two wide, large building with roof access "-as secondaries. We got lucky this time, with a large courtyard, so we'll be able land all at once. Heinkel will take two Gremlins, eight each, and be landing here and here.

"Alpha and Bravo are next, with five Gremlins each, so you can start securing your OPs ASAP." Another sip. "Once we get back, we'll need a refuel before we take the last sixteen from Barvo-" sip "-and Alpha. All in all... three outings at eight mikes times two for both ways, three deployments at two tops mikes, one refuel, stacks up to about... an hour minus change before all boots on the ground."

"And that's counting on none of us running into MANPADS," added another pilot.

"Yeah," started Benjamin after another sip. "That would definitely shake things up a bit."

A moment latter, and the Flight Deck Control Officer reported to the Captain. "Okay Owen, just got the all clear from all the crew chiefs."

Kapić took this as his queue to rally his men, and one hand up to his ear and made a circling motion with his other while facing the flight deck control room. Three waved circles with a thumbs up was replied to with a quick beep over the ships PA system, followed by an announcement, "Ladies and gentlemen, flight 441 to Sanbashi is now boarding. All troops grab your equipment and repot to your platoon leaders on the flight deck."

It only took a few minutes for the three-hundred and nineteen men and women of the 441st to assemble in the loading area. The voices of squad leaders and their subordinates discussing their preparations were soon added to the growing whine of the Gremlin engines spooling up. Not long after, loud hissing noises came from the hangar doors on the port and starboard sides of the bay. Natural sunlight filled the chamber, over powering the florescent bars strung around from steel beams and scaffolding.

The smell of water also invaded the senses of everyone now exposed to the open air. The two _Tyrrhenian_ _-_ class battleships, IMS _Pianosa_ and _Ventotene_ , joined the _Hesperides_ in a low altitude position holding at an altitude of about one hundred and fifty meters above a massive lake. The town of Sanbashi was situated on a peninsula jutting out into lake Asai Mizu, a drainage basin at the feet of a horseshoe of mountains a few miles inland from a larger saltwater body. Since it was also on the windward side of the range, and at a semi-tropical latitude, created a very lush, almost rainforest like, region.

This waterfront aroma combined with the natural lighting entering the hanger, transforming the area from a harsh cargo bay into something akin to an open air, lake side cottage. Except, of course, for the massive amounts of guns, missiles, rockets, and other assorted munitions.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle hushed all the voices, as man dressed in a non-combatant uniform stood up on top of a crate, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled out. "Before anyone goes out, make sure you have your Hazard Security Insurance Transfer Agreement's up to date!" He pulled off a sling bag off his shoulder, and removed a binder filled with blank insurance forms. "No one wants to die, but make sure that if you suck at finding cover, or your poor survival instincts kick in, your family or dependents don't miss out on... however much insurance you have back logged."

"Hey Schreiber," a voice called out, "does this come with any-"

"No Dick," Schreiber replied with a smile and a sigh, "you aren't getting any of my gold."

The hangar was filled with light laughter as men and women gabbed the offered paperwork. The HSITA was the most recent in a long line of benefits offered to security personnel. The IMC was trying very desperately to incentives more hirees. While Hammond Robotics continued to develop and produce automated security drones, like the Spectre, the cost/performance ratio just didn't compare to that of actual people on top of the fact that they were very expensive to produce. And unfortunately for the IMC, they were losing people and drones faster than they could be replaced.

Emma had already filed her Agreement earlier this morning.

"Walker!" Emma's head snapped around at her name. It was PO2 Dubois that grabbed her attention. "This way, dame. We're Oscar Mike."

She nodded in acknowledgement and jogged over to him. Neither of them wore their helmets, much like the rest of the battalion, so facial identification was easy. The two began to walk together to the waiting Goblins with the rest of her unit. Her unit, similar to the other four companies in the battalion, was comprised of seventy-six personnel. Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie companies, being Rifle Companies, were sub-divided further into three platoons of twenty and a fourth platoon of sixteen that acted as a heavy support group. She was part of the support group of Bravo Company, but on an EVAC operations such as this, support groups usually traded their three mortar teams and an HMG team for two more infantry fire teams.

"Hey Walker," came the voice of Lance Corporal Brandon Kennedy, "got your death insurance taken care of, yeah?"

Her first reaction was to smile, in spite of her best efforts. She just couldn't get over that amusing rooting of an Irish accent in his speech. Brandon Kennedy was relatively short man of solid build, fair skin, and a red head to boot. The rest of the company took careful notice of this combination, much to the chagrin of Brandon. All in good fun of course as Brandon, a former professional boxer with a few minor class belts to his record, could _verifiably_ punch the living daylights out of anyone who push him to far.

"Yeah, Ken, I filed it this morning."

"This morning?" Nishi checked his watch, "it's zero seven hundred."

"And I filed everything at quarter to six."

Then another voice joined the conversation. "You know that they will not do that for very much longer," came the French accented voice of Jean Danjou. A Kongo man of good height and build, he spoke in a deep voice of a Bantu-French accent, and a refusal to use contractions for reasons known only to him. He was also the platoons self ascribed pundit on internal workings of the IMC bureaucracy. It was if the man had "friends" or "acquaintances" in every department. Essentially, he was the unit gossip.

"Alright, hold the chatter," said Dubois. "Ira and Benoni covering his section, so I'm responsible for you lot. So you all know the drill; pre-launch equipment check sound off."

"Private Sadakichi Kato, rifleman good to go."

"Private Xiu Juan Chiu, riflemen good to go."

"Private First Class Sergey Kharlamov, automatic gunner ready to go."

"Lance Corporal Alejandro de Padua María-" The Lance Corporal was interrupted by those around him swatting and chiding him, while he broke out into a fit of laughter.

"Alright, wijsneus, keep it solid," scolded Dubois.

"Fine, fine... Hernandez, grenadier all good."

And on and on it went, as the fireteams and HMG team sounded off and entered the waiting Goblin. Then it was the AT team's turn.

"Corporal Takeichi Nishi, anti-armor lead good to go."

"Private First Class Emma Walker, assistant ant-armor good to go."

"Mhmm," Dubois hummed in response to the last member of his unit, while signing a piece of paper on a clip board. Part of standard legal procedure before a deployment was a written conformation by squad leaders that all present members of a verbally confirmed a 'ready to go' statement.

As Walker made her way into the Goblin, she noticed the two supply crates, one in front of the other, dividing the hold. Although Walker had never been on a combat deployment, she was aware of some of the habits that units in combat tended to practice. One such practice was to have squads deploy directly into combat with surplus equipment out of Gremlins. Usually, this practice was reserved for forces expecting to be entrenched and surrounded for long durations of time. Quite a rarity for what was supposed to be a run of the mill EVAC operation.

"You know what they say about the Chief," said Dubois. "Man's been a little paranoid of supply shortage since the Cossack Civil War. No need to think we're walking into another Al Naglia, right everyone?"

"Nahnahnah, no," went someone. "Don't even bring that up."

It wasn't much longer after Walker founder her seat that the engines began to spool up beyond starting idle. Three men in grey and white aviation suits quickly jumped on the ramp and shuffled their way through the packed aircraft. They white suited man, the Load Master, stayed on the ramp and informed the flight crew that the craft was full and the ramp was clear to be closed, and the two wearing grey went to the side mounted door guns, a pair of enhanced versions of the EM-4 with six times the ammo capacity and not limited to four round burst. One oddity that Emma noticed was the faint tally marks next to each gunners' position.

When the Load Master tapped his helmet, all the passengers read the que to put on their helmets. In an instant, Emma's world changed. The IMC CQCT helmet had become the iconic IMC helmet, with full frontal faceplate. She however, often wore the plate up, and opted for ballistic glasses instead, preferring to only use the plate for protection in actually CQC environments. Not that she had ever been in combat, but she knew that was going to change today.

Today, she was going to encounter death and destruction, and once she put that helmet on, she knew that some of that death would most assuredly be on her hands.

* * *

 **A/N**

 **So yeah, this took a while. Sorry for those of you following this.**

 **I have to admit, I'm not entirely sure how I want this story to end up in some places.**

 **Also, I hate having to say this, but the jokes that happen in this story are jokes and not meant to be taken seriously. Have a nice day, and if you so choose leave a like, follow, or comment. I do so dearly love reading people's opinions on stuff.**

 **END TRANSMITTION**


	3. Flight on Time

As Emma finished securing her harness, she heard the pilot's voice come over the intercom. "Alright ladies and gents, this is your pilot speaking. Please make sure all luggage is properly secured and keep all hands, feet, and heads inside the aircraft at all times. Unless you want them to get shot."

The vibrations of the aircraft seemed to intensify in proportion to her heart rate. The two door gunners exchanged a well coordinated high-five choreography, that lasted about three seconds, before returning attention to their weapons. The attention of all passengers was suddenly drawn to the Dubois with a shout from the Petty Officer.

"The hell's going on now?"

Following the platoon leader's gaze out a window, Emma noticed two Troublemen running from dropship to dropship, franticly exclaiming things to the Loadmasters. Troublemen was the IMC Marine's slang term for IMC Police Action Protocol Legal Accountability Division Personnel. Lawyers who's job was to make sure all pre-combat parameters were being followed in accordance with International Law. Making sure certain types of weapons weren't being used, troops weren't deploying in restricted areas, etc. What was the problem this time was anyone's guess, since they had an aggravating tendency to appear right before deployments, which then fouled up mission schedules.

As the two lawyers made their way up to the dropship, the pair of gunners and the loadmaster gathered at the port side gun port. The loadmaster inquired with a "What's the deal?"

With the noise of the engines, Emma could barely comprehend the conversation. Luckily, the talking lawyer has conversing with his hands just as much as his mouth. A commanding point down towards the EM-4H, and a chopping motion across his neck gave enough clues. _'No go on the plasma machine-guns.'_

The loadmaster crossed his arms. "No that was just Titanfall ROEs."

A few head shakes and some more words. _'Nope.'_

The growing frustration was so blatantly apparent, the large goggles worn by the crewmen failed to conceal their gripes. One gunner begins his own inquisition. "We can't even hold them on the craft?"

Another round of head shakes.

A short string of profanities made their presence known over the engines. Before the two Troublemen made their way onto the next victim, they made sure to get the loadmaster's autograph. While the door gunners detached the weapons and handed them out to the waiting ground crew, while the loadmaster pulled two small crates down from the overhead racks.

As he pulled out two Mk. 1 Spitfire LMGs with a few spare magazines, he addressed the crew. "Bit of a handicap here boys, but not much we can do about it." He squeezed his collar and spoke, presumably, to the pilot. "Good to go Cap."

Since Emma's radio was set to her squad's local network, she only heard the one side of the conversation between crew and pilot. The pilot must have gotten the message, as a few seconds latter, the aircraft whirled back to life and, with a brief jolt, was in the air. The wind howled through the open gun ports, despite the fact that no one could really hear it past the ear protection. Emma took a quick glance to her wrist watch; 0709. It would be about eight to ten minutes until they reached the LZ, and with the only conversation currently being the wind, her squad mates took it upon themselves to start one up.

"So Danjou, what's this I hear about the IMC running out of money?" Emma still found it bizarre to hear the static riddled voices from people armlengths away come in right to her ear.

Danjou replied to the man after sliding up his face plate. "I have a friend in accounting who tells me many things. He says the IMC Domestic Product Market Team has all but been eviscerated. Much money has been reallocated to Security and defense contracts."

"I thought domestic was the main income source for them?"

That caught Emma off guard. _'_ _Them'._ Addressing the IMC, the corporation that they all worked for, as a separate entity from themselves. She filed that away to think about at a less stressful time.

"Yes and no," Dubois chimed in.

"Elaborate," someone asked.

Dubois put his faceplate up and responded. "Domestic has _historically_ been a primary source of revenue for the IMC. However, defense contracts are more valuable in the long run since they are more reliable on income. They are also flexible on deadlines sometimes, which is useful considering that a lot of IMC resources are diverted to all this." He finished with a gesturing around himself.

"Which is why the IMC is pulling out of the domestic market and focusing on defense," Danjou came back. "It allows for income that they can use to pay people to get the resources in stock to fulfill the contracts, while they can temporally divert to... this."

Another someone joined the talk. "So why is the IMC still trying to recruit more of us? If they got the resources, why not build more bots?"

"Because," said Dubois, "the drones cost resources that are needed to fulfill the defense orders. People are much cheaper in regards to resources. Bullets and body armor compared to metal alloy skeletons with sophisticated software uplinks, all for something that doesn't perform with half the efectivness as one of us."

That last remark got a few cheers and laughs.

* * *

As the rest of the squad carried on with their various conversations, Emma leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and tuned out as much of the world as she could. She was brought back when the aircraft started a hard right bank, and pair of Phantoms dodged around the dropship. They sped ahead of the flight of Goblins, firewalling it towards the quickly approaching cityscape. Once the hard bank softened out, the pilots started to trade altitude for speed. Emma was surprised by this considering they were already under fifty meters above the water.

"What's this?" She asked.

It was Nishi who responded. "The Phantoms are pulling wild weasel, and we're following suit by going low and fast."

"Probably got ECMs working, too," someone else added. A few others supported this statement with nods.

"Wait, so... are we being tagged?"

A chorus of affirmatives was her answer.

That didn't sit well with her. The thought that she could be plucked out of the sky by a single man with a shoulder mounted missile launcher. Was this what it was like to be under an artillery barrage? Stuck where you are, while others targeted you from afar, with no way to fight back? And these pilots do this every mission?

"Don't worry, Keiko," said Nishi. "The Militia doesn't usually hit the first wave."

"Why?"

"Let's them hide their SAMs for the second wave."

Dubois added, "they can't control the main LZ, so they wait for the first waves to set up-"

"And then they can isolate those on the ground, and keep CAS at bay while they take out the pockets."

Emma took a second to process that. "So we're most likely safe until we're on the ground?"

Dubois made a face. "Well, I don't know if I'd-"

TINK TINK TINK TINK

The sound of metal hitting metal reverberated off the hull. It was answered by the quick by the rattling of the left-side door gunner. He was half leaning, half squatting in his position, seeming to hop left to right while sputtering out shots in short bursts. Emma had no idea if he was hitting what he was shooting at, but when a few more rounds bounced off the aircraft, she suspected he hadn't. It did look awkward manipulating a weapon that wasn't fixed to the aircraft, which the gunner was probably used to. Emma huffed and shook her head. _That's why no one likes last minute changes._

When she did get a glance out, she saw a network of wharfs, piers, and docks with dozens of buildings lining the edges. The second thing she noticed was the smattering of muzzle flashes coming from the figures on the roofs and in the windows.

"Triple-A fire, gents," someone said.

"It'll die out once we get over populated areas," another commented.

As the final minutes of the trip came to a close, the gunfire seemed to dissipate, proving the soldier true.

"They're hiding out in the evacuation now," Nishi told her as he pulled his faceplate down. "Be on max alert, keep your head on a swivel."

When she looked around at the others, she noticed most, but not all, had also pulled their masks down. It was a continuing debate on the effectiveness of the IMCs standard CQC helmet. Plate up or down? While many pointed out the cutting of peripheral vision when down, and a delayed response time of helmet to internal visor to wearer and back, many still chose to wear it. The chief reason being not enhanced optics or NVG or IR, but simply face protection. Most estimates say that the plate reduces combat fatal head injuries by approximately twelve percent.

Many, like Emma herself, are also quick to point out that those who wear it are roughly fifteen percent more likely to get shot. At the end of the day, Emma chose sight.

"Alright," Dubois interrupted her thoughts. "Mr. Irish, can we get some Space Pope action before we all die?"

Kennedy was Irish but, what made his family the black sheep of their community, was also a practitioner of Eastern Orthodox. His Greek wife 'made' him convert from Roman Catholic when they got married, and he had been hassled for it ever since. Regardless of his current relation to the Vatican, he was still familiar with much of the Latin, and was therefore the de facto company clergyman.

"Probably shoulda done this back in the _Peri_ , so we could take our helmets off," he mumbled as he stood and grabbed the overhead racks.

"Está bien," Hernandez shouted. "Jesús won't mind, Padre. We going to fight." That brought out a few chuckles.

The Irishman held up his hands to still the hold. "Alright everyone," he cleared his throat. He aired a crucifix, and several others followed suit making _signum crucis_ ' to themselves.

"Sancte Michael Archangele, defende nos in proelio…" he started. Despite the howl of the wind, the whine of the engines, and the rattling of the gunfire, he remained audible. As Emma listened in, the cacophony seemed to fade out for a second, allowing her to process her place for a moment.

She had signed up for the IMC thinking they would assign her to a security detail of some lithium mine or helium plant. She'd maybe trade fire with some upset locals, maybe participate in an eviction operation, and in a year, she'd be leading a security detail on an freighter. She'd spend three or four years in the IMC before getting a Defense Contract Citation, and get an early jump into the NATU Defense Department as a noncommissioned officer. She would be a Sergeant, or close to that, and spend six years doing the same work she did for the IMC, but either on the border with New Persia, or in the Cossack Regions.

What she hadn't thought about too much, was killing people.

One thing her father had always said was that all choices have consequences, and one must compare and contrast the benefits and detriments. Although he was just tobacco farmer on Mars, he had a passion for words (among other things), and was very carful with words when he was speaking of matters of importance. Consequences, by definition, simply meant a result of an action or condition. It wasn't an inherently negative term. Benefit and detriment were the words with inherent value of positive and negative respectively. One consequence of a good crop is you have a crop to sell, which is a benefit. Another consequence of a good crop is that now you have to compete with the other tobacco market contracts, which is a detriment.

But she hadn't considered the consequences of killing another human being. _Wait,_ she thought. _Isn't killing a consequence from being in the IMC?_

before she could expand on that thought, she dropship lurched to one side, and her stomach dropped out. A loud pop came from the loading ramp as it unlocked and began to drop. They had arrived at their destination, as evidenced by the Loadmaster shuffling past Kennedy to unlatch the two supply crates.

Speaking of the impromptu Irish chaplain, he was just finishing up his prayer with a backdrop of rising building behind him. He held up his hand and repeated the motion he had started with at the beginning, finishing with the words, "In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen."

Several of those in the hold with her made another signum crucis, while repeating an Amen of their own. Emma joined in this time as well, but remain silent. One person who took exception was Hernandez, who seemed to be having a stare down with Kennedy. "Qué? I'm Católico! I'm not taking prayers from some Greek orthodox sellout heretic!"

"Shut your trap you idolator!" Kennedy shot back.

The hold filled with laughter one last time before the Loadmaster kicked the two crates, which rolled out the back, fell the last few feet, and thumped on the ground. The dropship itself then slowed to a complete stop, but didn't fully touch down. It hovered about two feet off the ground, while everyone jumped out and established a perimeter two by two.

As Emma hit the ground second to last, followed by Nishi, she charged her rifle, engaged the safety, and turned to her team-mate. "We good, Boss?"

"We're solid, Keiko," he replied, adjusting the missile launcher harness over his shoulder. "Follow me. We're gonna set up over there." He pointed to a six story building that looked like it would have a good view of an intersection.

The position that Fourth Platoon had taken was an courtyard that sat between a few office buildings, restaurants, and a thirty-six story hotel. All positioned at an intersection between a major route to the tram station five blocks north-west, and a merging point of three sideroads into a three lane road coming from the east city. Most potential hostile activity was expected to come from everywhere except the tram station.

"The rest of the squad is setting up along Route 6, so we should be able to cover them to the west. But..." He tapped the button that turned on the closed radio in his helmet. "Dubbs, this is Nish. Can you have Kennedy move on the south side? Cover Route 6, over."

A few seconds later and the three men of Kennedy's HMG team had moved to their location. "You needed us, Boss?"

The TW Ordinance M2A2 general purpose machine-gun, more popularly referred to as the Snelheid, was a large caliber machine-gun designed in a relatively lightweight frame that could be quickly disassembled and reassembled for mobility purposes. It required two men to move it disassembled, plus an additional man for the tripod. With a fire rate of about 10000 rounds per minute, it was a fantastic anti-personnel weapon.

"Yeah, can you cover us from the street while we take out any armor that shows up?"

"Sure thing Boss."

The three men rushed off to find a good spot to set up.

"Alright Keiko, lets get this ball rolling, yeah?"

Emma pulled up her rifle, and nodded. "You got it Boss."

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Alright, this took a little while. Really having a lot of fun writing this, in spite of the continuous real world things that keep getting in my way.**

 **Any comments, questions, or concerns, just say so.**

 **Also, anyone seen the movie _Letters from Iwo Jima_? Really good movie to see with _The Great Raid._**

 **END TRANSMITION**


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